I'm wandering through the holiday fair in downtown Setúbal and hear a brass band in the distance. As I get closer, I realize, to my horror, that they're playing "YMCA."
Are these guys MAGA? Has some vestige of Salazar-era authoritarianism arisen to align with the Trump cultural circus? Do these guys realize the current implications and associations of this song?
But then I recalled similar anomalies encountered in foreign lands. I keep endlessly relearning that transported tropes seldom retain context.
I've previously told the story of flying to Japan to perform with a (nearly) all-black big band, and the fat cat Japanese producer who paid for it all welcomed the band with a huge spread of fresh watermelon.
As my colleagues dug in nonchalantly (musicians on tour are like locusts; never knowing when you'll be fed again, you ask no questions), I parsed out the situation.
The producer genuinely respected us. He'd gone to great effort and expense to fly us over. He was certainly not looking to insult us.
Moreover, I knew that off-season watermelon in Japan costs $100 per melon (my bandmates would have choked if they'd known). So, again, this was not what it seemed. It was a gesture of respect, horribly bungled.
I finally understood that the situation was so simple that I'd failed to consider it: he'd heard somewhere that black people like watermelon. Not in any sneering way, but just as a data point. So he was being gracious. Like having frozen vodka ready for Russian visitors.
No other context was applicable. Just a data point he'd picked up from the ether (as we acquire most of the things we know). It took effort for me to shave off the layers of context and recognize the simplicity.
There's a Jewish restaurant in Krakow, Poland serving Jewish soul food cooked by gentiles in a restaurant festooned with the most vile caricatures of huge-nosed, money grubbing, grubby-bearded, well, Jews.
I didn't notice all at once. It was a slow burn as I tackled the greasy fare, peering around the room while chewing. My initial thought was: What exactly am I supporting here? Was this like striding into Auschwitz' gift shop circa 1944 to buy a commemorative "I took a shower!" yarmulka and lend support to the important work being done there?
Again, I pondered. The owners needed to brand; to convey that this was not Chinese or Italian or French food, but Jewish. So they sought out the most Jewish-seeming decor they could find. And, hoo boy, they'd found it! But there was no intention to offend; as with the Japanese producer, the whole enterprise was intended as respectful tribute. Not being Berkeley sociology grad students, they weren't trained in the art of tonal adjustment - e.g. the meticulous insertion of "sadly", "unfortunately", and "tragically" before all verbs - nor had they recognized the need to avoid cartoons of greedy, dirty rabbis. That's all!
Once again, shorn of context, a trope can be utterly without spin. The malignance is only in the interpretation.
Finally, back to Japan again. I was walking down the sidewalk as a gang of punks with mohawks and spikes and studs and crazy piercings approached with menacing expressions. My impulse was to dash to the other side of the street, but a tiny wizened grandma happened to be walking near me, and I paused to considered whether she was in danger.
She kept shuffling forward obliviously, a sweet smile on her face, having a nice walk on a lovely day. And, as they passed, the punks paused to bow with deep respect to their elder before recomposing themselves and moving on.
Even having left Kansas, you often must remind yourself you're not in Kansas anymore.
The band was just playing the damned song. Yeah, it might have entered their playlist because they've been hearing it on the news, but they're not bringing political baggage along with it.
On my end, I might consider the musicians terribly naive, and figure they ought to pay closer attention to implications. Or, I might acknowledge that they're just nice guys playing a fun song everybody kinda likes, and the only problem in all of this is me clutching at my pearls.
I lean toward the latter interpretation.
This, btw, is why boredom is never appropriate. The tedious tediousness of existence is only at the surface. Travel widely or observe deeply, and there's lots more going on. Also: less!
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